


Easy (Like Sunday Morning)

by viajeramyra



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Food, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pastries, Tatiana & Martin friendship rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viajeramyra/pseuds/viajeramyra
Summary: Tatiana picked up two of the spoons from the sink, turning the round parts to face each other. "You're so attractive," she mimicked in her best Spanish accent. "No, you are," she said for the other spoon, imitating her best Argentine accent. She pressed them together then, smiling proudly at her little show."Do I need to go buy you Barbies? Because you're supposed to be doing the dishes," he responded, balling up the tea towel to throw playfully at her face. He didn't need the growing smirk on her face to tell him his face was beet red, already feeling the heat for himself.————Or the three chapter Berlermo coffee shop AU nobody asked for, but here we are anyway.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 36
Kudos: 136





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, in the spirit of Berlermo Bingo, I combined coffee shop AU with out of Spain (though, I have a backpackers AU I'd eventually love to do set in SEA, too. So we will see if that one isn't done again). 
> 
> Three chapters. Probably done this weekend, depending on how much time Every Little Thing Chapter 23 takes up. :)

The morning sun was still a few hours away from rising above the tall peak of the Uinta mountains, covered with plush green trees and other shrubbery evident in even the distance and shrouded by the dark sky. Hues of dark purple and specks of grey, twirling gracefully between the speckled stars as though nothing more than carefully laid lines of ribbon. Waking up this early was never easy, the heavy weight of sleep still sinking his eyelids as he fumbled with the silver key in his hand. He’d taken a strong liking to the night shift: the buzz of the evening crowd after getting off of work, the fun weekends spent sneaking up front to the piano off to the side of the bar or messing with the jukebox to set the mood for the night, and even the occasional drunken argument cracking through an otherwise good mood but still leaving his team laughing as they dispersed the crowd and broke up the tension. He’d wasted the days away, sleeping or occasionally leaving work early enough to climb one of the endless trails to see the sun breaking past one of the many rocky curves adoring the skyline.  
  
Now, though, he found himself turning off the security alarm to the French-style bakery just before 3 o’clock in the morning. He could still remember the phone call, Tatiana’s voice uncharacteristically shrill as she spoke to him through a mix of Spanish, French, and English even he was incapable of following. He’d had to hold the phone away from his ear, certain he might rupture an eardrum if she was allowed to continue shouting.  
  
“ _Tr_ _anquilo,_ Tatiana! I can’t—understand—what you’re saying,” He’d grumbled, throwing one of his many pillows over his face. His lips smacked as he’d yawned, and his eyes had tried to fixate clearly on anything. When he had felt like he could see again, he’d peeled the pillow from his face to check the time. According to the round clock across from him on the wall, he’d only managed ninety minutes of sleep before he’d been so rudely interrupted by five continuous ones of loud, vibrating coming from the phone on his nightstand. When her picture greeted him, he’d felt obliged to answer even though every fiber of his being told him to angrily yell something about the hour and immediately turn off his phone.  
  
“Our loan got approved, Martín! We can open the— _our_ bakery!”  
  
Excitement had buzzed in his head, but also continued to be mostly drowned out by his exhaustion. His body had felt torn between jumping out of bed, ready to run the few blocks between their homes and muttering something along the lines of _that’s nice, but did you really have to call me at 8:30 in the morning?_ He’d settled on something in between, rolling over onto his side as his hand had come to wipe away a few flecks of sleep crusted against the corner of his eye. “Mmm, that’s great,” he’d replied, voice hoarse.  
  
“You don’t seem very excited about this. Are you already having second thoughts because it’s a little late for that now,” she’d teased, and he’d been able to picture the smile across her face, brighter than the sun reflecting off the thick layers of snow he knew sat on the ground outside.  
  
“It’s _early,_ ” he’d corrected, and a pathetic attempt at a moan had followed his words, as he tried to warrant any amount of sympathy for his predicament. He hadn’t blamed her for her enthusiasm, knowing all too well this had been her dream since she had graduated culinary school a few years ago. They’d met at a conference, gotten far too drunk at the fancy hotel bar, and ended their evening collapsed on the sofa in his hotel room, laughing and complaining about the lack of suitable company they’d otherwise been met with and usually encountered at these functions.  
  
They might as well have been attached at the hip since then. She was bright, as witty as he was, and genuinely kind to him. He had other friends, of course, the security staff at the bar where he’d worked for seven years, and a circle of others he’d met because of them, to name a few. But, she was the first that he’d brought into his life on his own accord and the first he’d willingly shared his ideas about owning a café of his own whenever funds allowed it. He’d known then it would be hard to walk away from the steady paycheck and the promise of promotions that were worthy of his talents. The call of the adrenaline rushing through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest as he’d spoken to his head chef about his two week’s notice had spoken volumes to the risk he was taking on the new venture, but also the potential of great reward if they made it through the first fiscal year. They’d saved, cut down their own personal expenses in order to reach their goal, and sealed the deal when the bank had approved their portfolio.  
  
Opening had gone well a couple weeks ago, the line out the door between Tatiana’s pleasant smile and charming demeanor, coupled with her excellent social media skills that had drawn eyes to their street. They’d hung their pride flag proudly in the front window, giving a little color the basic design in the small front window, while providing a small statement to their personal lives. He ran one of his fingers past it as he moved to check the succulent plants in front of it in the window, thankful that Tatiana’s green thumb kept them from rapidly decaying. He tried not to touch the thick, dark green leaves for fear he might leave behind yellow spots or crumble one accidentally with his track record for keeping things alive. The fresh aroma tickled his nose, making him smile as he glanced out to the empty street.  
  
Finally, he switched on one of the lights in the front of the bakery, eyes adjusted and mind better prepared to avoid the blinding sensation. They’d picked warm white light to illuminate their interior, red brick walls highlighted beautifully with the selection. The domed lights overhead only let a little light in, her preference for the natural light pouring in through the large windows during business hours. Fairy Lights were strung around the various decorations, a few thin lamps with square white shades spread around the room to add to the atmosphere. A single dark brown leather sofa offered the best seating, coupled with a rustic grey coffee table and plush armchair. A few other circular tables and comfortable chairs were scattered around in the front of the café, while the back opened up to offer ample seating for the majority of their customers. The kitchen was covered from outside viewers, apart from the small window just behind the counter. He preferred to work that way, without eyes taking a look at his masterpieces too soon. If things went wrong, and he worked diligently to make sure that was extremely rare, he could hide the reddening in his cheeks and pack it away to donate or throw away discreetly.  
  
Tatiana made her home in the front, sterling grey espresso makers lined up next to each other in a row just a ways down from the cash register. Closer to the wall, she kept her ingredients on black shelves, glossed over paint giving them a little shine. Panels had been decorated with white chalk, displaying the options she was capable of drawing on top steaming drinks. A few other wooden decorations were arranged mindfully, tying together a neat workspace while giving it character. His pastries were kept sheltered behind glass, a photo of them cutting the red ribbon on opening day in a silver frame proudly in the middle. Two smaller cacti sat on either side of the photo, tying the decor together neatly.  
  
Moving to the back, he grabbed one of his hunter green aprons to throw on over his black clothes. Tatiana was always along shortly after he’d arrived to start work on her assortment of muffins, cookies, and to assist in making the croissants while he diligently worked on the rest. He knew without doubt that he would never hear the end of it if he was just standing around when she came. He turned the faucet on, the loud splatter hitting the bottom of the sink. Splashing the warm water from the stream over his face, he pulled at the heavy bags under his eyes, before he finished by washing his hands. Try as he might, he always looked like he had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Tatiana said the same of herself, only she always came to work chipper and friendly, looking as refreshed as she always did. He’d mocked once that she may as well start referring to herself as the typecast Disney Princess who rolled out of bed and sang to her animal companions—and had been ignored for a week as a consequence. 

He slid the apron around his neck, groaning at the tight fit of strings around his waist as he tied it. He huffed when he undid it, before opting to leave the knot in the back loose. Scattered among their busiest days, lulls had left him with food he’d had to take home for himself, rounding out his belly. He’d have to make sure to share the wealth and require Tatiana to start taking some for herself, rather than fattening him up as though he would be next on the menu.  
  
He gathered up the necessary mixing bowls, mind already set on the kouign-amann. The decadent pastry was their staple crowd pleaser, the only café in the city to serve the French delicacy. It was a great labor of love to prepare it, but non-negotiable to both he and Tatiana when setting up their menu. Other options rotated daily, customer favorites popping up on their board a few times a month to create anticipation. They worked well together, twenty-eight years of experience between the two of them with most in his favor. He combined the sugar, water, and yeast, thinking of how much warning he’d received for going into business with someone ten years his junior. Tatiana always had a natural flair, though, and a wisdom beyond her years that made her the ideal business partner. He didn’t have a single complaint, and didn’t expect that to change.  
  
“Buenos dias, Martín,” she called, her voice carried with hints of a sweet melody. “Sleep well queriño?”  
  
“Never enough, bonita,” he replied, turning to poke his head through the window. Ever insistent on style fitting her carefully designed aesthetic, she wore a dark green blouse with cutouts in the sleeves, baring her shoulders. The shirt met her high rise black skirt, hair tied back behind her head in a neat ponytail. The suspenders crossed over the middle of her back, tying it all together. The poor soul had tried desperately to drag him around the thrift stores spread across the capital, but he still had a natural affinity for black.  
  
“Where’s the music? It’s so unlike you not to have it already going,” she said, walking over to where they kept their radio and aux cable.  
  
“I’m being nice, don’t get too used to it!” He laughed, focusing his attention back to the bowl in front of him. The dough would need two hours to rise before he could do anything with it, giving him plenty of time to fixate on a number of other things to be done. He’d created a few playlists for the ambiance of the café, but they avoided burnout listening to better music in the mornings. The knocking ping pong made him shutter, grateful she had least had the sense to put on Enrique Iglesisas’ Spanish songs. “Are you going to come help me?”  
  
“We could just keep closed for the day. Come dance with me.” He didn’t need to see the smile on her face to know it was there, eyes lit up and sparkling with humor. Whatever her source of endless energy, readily available at any hour of the day, he’d always find it unfair she never offered to share any with him.  
  
“We can’t afford to _close for the day,_ unless you want to go steal funds from your parents. It’s always the promising option if our endeavor fails.”  
  
“Martín,” she laughed, her voice getting louder as she at last made her way towards the kitchens, “that was my first pick and you said you’d rather earn all your pennies yourself.”  
  
He gestured to the next bowl in front of him, reaching his hand inside the bag of flour with the measuring spoon. “Well, I’ve already started today. Maybe we’ll revisit the idea tomorrow.” He slid one of the bowls across the kitchen island, making room for her to begin her preparations.  
  
She sang along to the lyrics he was trying his best to ignore. He wondered if it might be worth it to shove pieces of uncooked dough in his ears to block it out, preferring to ignore the sickeningly sweet lyrics meant to make people feel bubbly when they were hopelessly in love. His last relationships had all been shit shows: men aggravated by his unwillingness to pursue less _stereotypical_ professions, others annoyed by him always wanting to make room for Tatiana to tag along, or his own shrinking whenever they were out alone in public dissolving any potential romances quickly. He didn’t mind, none of them were really worth his time and Tatiana was always better company anyway. The continuous lyrics rubbed him the wrong way though, and had he not willingly offered her the choice for the day, he would have immediately changed it.  
  
“What do you think of cranberry orange scones next week?” He asked, loud enough to drown out some of the music. It must have been too boisterous for his usual morning tone, because she stopped what she was doing to raise her eyebrow at him.  
  
“If you didn’t like the music, you could _ask_ me to change it.”  
  
“Would you?”  
  
“I’d consider it, if you begged long enough,” she grinned, turning the mixing bowl as she moved her flat silicone spatula around the rim of the bowl.  
  
“Always a catch with you,” he mused, starting to move his next creation onto the parchment paper covering one of the longer baking trays.  
  
“I’m not sure why you don’t like it. You’re one of the sappiest people I’ve ever met,” she added, carefully spooning out the mixture into muffin liners. “Scones sound great. We can visit Wheeler Farm this weekend and pick up fresh oranges and cranberries.”  
  
He rested his hands on his hips, eyes narrowing at her, ignoring the approval for his suggestion. He cocked his head, tongue threatening to poke out from behind his teeth. “One of the sappiest people you’ve ever met? You either need to get out more, or stop making assumptions because I’m gay.”  
  
“You can’t use that to try and make me feel bad.”  
  
“Not even a little bit?” His lip curled into a pout, bottom lip puffing enough it started to strain the corners of his mouth. His eyes opened wide, the best mock offense he could produce for the still early hour.  
  
“That doesn’t work on me either, not _even a little bit,”_ she answered, her best impression of his Argentine accent accompanying the words. Hastily, she moved to steal the heated oven he’d prepared for himself. She slid the tray in, smiling triumphantly as he looked back and forth between her and his unfinished granola waited for him. With the back of her hand against her forehead, she pretended to swoon in the increased heat of the kitchen. “You’re falling behind, dear pâtissier. Don’t make us close before we even make it a month.”  
  
By the time the time the sun started to cast shadows on the walls of the kitchen, Tatiana had already started to take all the pastries out to the display case. She organized them, gloved hands putting each in specific arrangements. She had made him design white cards with glittery golden text in his best calligraphy, boasting the entire time about how lucky she was to have a friend with such elegant handwriting. He loathed how easy it was for her to make his face glow, proud of the hobby he’d picked up on lazy Sunday afternoons. At least now, it was put to good use for their bakery.  
  
When she returned one last time to get the kouign-amann, she’d smiled sly at him while her hand fumbled in her pocket. He took a step back, already apprehensive by the look on her face alone. The last time she’d looked at him like that was when they’d had one too many bottles of wine on a weekend escape to the spas in Sundance, and he’d woken up with marker scribbled all over his face. “Whatever you’re about to do, I’ll save you the time. Don’t.”  
  
“Martín, we are working. I’m not going to draw a peacock on your cheek. I still think it fits you, though.” She held out the circular, white badge, extending it forward. He took it from her, immediately wanting to throw it jokingly across the room.  
  
The design was simple, a black and white sketch of one of their to go coffee mugs wrapped in a sleeve that bore his name. She’d insisted on calling their place _Martín’s Coffeehouse,_ even with his counterarguments it should at least share both of their names. The image itself wouldn’t have offended him, if not for the d'nealian text which read _World’s okayest barista._  
  
“I asked you to show me the French press and you said it was for you alone to use!” He protested, mouth agape.  
  
“And it was really cute that you tried, even if we had to comp our customer with free coffee because you somehow gave them more grinds than liquid.” She took the badge back from him, immediately pinning it over the right side of his chest. “You were so cute. All you had to do was wait for me to get back from the bathroom. The man at the farmer’s market and I had a good laugh about it when I saw this one. I had to get it.”  
  
“You didn’t _have_ to do anything. You’re choosing to continue to mock me.”  
  
“Mock you? I’m only giving you advice. Stick to cappuccinos or pastries, Martín,” she finished with a wink, turning to leave with the plate of flaky kouign-amann.  
  
Mondays and Fridays were always their busiest weekdays, but the line of ten he could see from his little window told him they would have a productive Wednesday. How people were dedicated enough to wake up, dress up in business casual attire, and still make time for anything more than a handful of crackers or a slice of toast for breakfast was beyond him, but it was good for business and that was all that mattered. He stayed behind the scenes, ready to replenish their supply whenever she asked or working on the orders made off their breakfast menu. Today’s special was a spinach frittata, a rather painless dish to repair but easy to dazzle the customer with when it was brought out on the cast iron skillet and adorned with garnish. He’d been monitoring their Instagram page and seen it in their tags on more than one occasion, though he hated the filters slapped onto it. His food should be pretty enough for a raw image, or people should worry less about capturing their moment. He’d never let Tatiana hear him voice those complaints though, with the way she was ever insistent that it really was necessary to have a good online presence these days.  
  
In the meantime, he cleaned the workstation to cut down on the amount of work they would need to do at closing, enjoying the peaceful acoustic songs playing over the speakers now tangled with the hearty laughs and easy conversations of their customers. The morning was going very well, and with any luck they might start turning a profit earlier than anticipated. The sweat above their brow was proving worth it, and the restless hours spent worrying they were making a mistake were shrinking farther and fewer in between. He cleaned his hands again, moving back to the stove top when the next order of the day came up.  
  
He placed it in the window when he was done out of habit before turning his back to start on the next one. The strong smell of garlic and onion accented with salt tickled the back of his nose, the ingredients in front of him the obvious culprit even though their containers were closed. While he started mixing the base of the next one, he looked up and noticed the last still patiently waiting. Looking out through the window, he saw the longer than anticipated line, almost reaching back to the front door. Wiping his hands, he grabbed one of his oven mitts. He grabbed the dish, coming around the corner before he had to be asked to take it out.  
  
“The man alone by the window,” Tatiana mouthed, tilting her head forward.  
  
He immediately regretted not switching tasks with her. The man wore a black turtleneck under his tailored navy blue suit, a folded checkered pocket square accenting his otherwise plain attire. He kept checking the silver watch on his wrist, probably worth more than everything Martín had in his entire closet. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from tracing the curve of his set jaw as the man’s hand rubbed it, lost in thought. He’d taken one of the tables closest to the window, but kept a closed black sketchbook open to his laptop, lost in his task. Martín wondered why he’d bothered with taking one of their best seats if he insisted on working through his meal, but he surmised the man probably wouldn’t give him an explanation. 

  
“Your order sir. Sorry for the wait,” he said, placing the food down on the other side of the computer. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”  
  
The man looked up finally, dark brown eyes looking directly into Martín’s. He could feel the fluttering his stomach, ready to turn around and leave without an answer at the risk of losing his tip. When he smiled, crow’s feet severed as beautiful embroidery around his eyes. The charismatic grin was making Martín’s throat tighten by the second, dry and coarse in a ridiculous overreaction to the handsome man in front of him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen men in business suits every day of the week since opening—they were a dime a dozen. But, there was something particularly captivating and almost familiar about the one in front of him now.  
  
“This will do for now,” he replied, with an amused snicker as though he knew exactly the reaction he was drawing from Martín. He leaned forward, tapping the button on Martín’s chest. “Do I need to be worried about the quality of my breakfast if you’re only the _okayest_ barista? I might have stuck to my usual coffee shop had I known.”  
  
That ruled out the possibility Martín had seen him before. He pulled away, surprised at how forward he was acting considering the accent was not American. His fingers twisted up the badge, rolling his eyes. “My friend,” he started, pointing back to the counter, “thinks she’s funnier than she actually is.”  
  
The man turned his head, nodding before he looked back at Martín. “Beautiful and a good sense of humor. It’s a rare combination.” He packed the computer back into the messenger bag, the strap hung over the back in the chair while it sat flat. He picked up his knife and fork, and Martín hated how he was once again memorizing the details of the man’s face. He had no way of knowing how many orders awaited him back at his station when all he wanted to do was pull back a chair and spend the rest of his morning here. Interfering like that was bad etiquette anyway, and though his food was good enough to give him a chance the man would return, all it meant was he had succeeded in his job.  
  
“Enjoy your food and the rest of your morning.”  
  
“Gracias, Martín.” He squeezed his shoulders together to stop the warm shiver threatening to tingle down his spine. He was undoubtedly acting worse than a teenage school girl, the tips of his ears probably read from the sound of his name rolling off a stranger’s tongue as though it were honey dripping off one of the beach-wood dippers.  
  
Tatiana beamed at him, only making the heat in his face pool worse. Even the long line in front of her had not been enough to block her view, the only benefit was the distance and music enough to hide how squeaky his voice had probably sounded. The last thing she needed was something else to pester him about when ammunition was hard to come by to hold against her. She rarely felt enough interest in anyone to get flustered by anything he could say in the aftermath, and her precision in her skill set robbed him of opportunities to use work as leverage either. He held a finger to his lips before he threw himself back into the kitchen.  
  
Stealing glances of the back of the man’s head was stupid, and he knew it. Even if he’d wanted to, he had too much to do to even try to enjoy the view. Orders kept coming in, staggered but consistent enough to keep him busy. There wasn’t much downtime, his feet constantly shuffling around the kitchen as he worked on various tasks. Once, he had thought he’d seen the man looking back in his direction, but it must have been a trick of the light because when he had a chance to look again a few seconds later, he was gone. It was better that way than for him to keep focused on things that didn’t matter.  
  
Their work started to dwindle towards the mid-morning, the bustle of the crowd having shuffled to get to their places in tall office buildings or ready to move on from their brunches. Tatiana was taking the time to wipe down the counters, while he came out to start sweeping up the crumbs on the ground. He ignored her eye, still thinking about that damned crooked smile. Mateo Oaxley’s acoustic cover of Savage Garden’s corny love song was the root cause of the problem, he decided. He wasn’t even sure when this song had made the cut for their playlist and made a note to take it off before he made a habit of listening to it.  
  
“Are you going to start singing along, princesa?” He swatted his hand through the air as Tatiana’s question broke through his daze, as annoying as a small fly. At least now he had an answer for who had put the song on the playlist, though he wondered when she’d managed to sneak over to add it.  
  
“You really need to work on your taste,” he responded, turning up his nose to display his disgust.  
  
“And you should have given that man your number! I could see the hearts in your eyes all the way from the counter. He was pretty attractive; was it the accent or the suit that did it for you?”  
  
“Now who is being sappy?” He bent down the brush up his pile of dirt into the dust pan, hating the easy smile plastered on his face despite her affectionate taunts. “Alluring strangers who happen to be good tippers are supposed to put you in good moods. We need the money.” He kept the broom in one hand, the dustpan in the other as he made his way to the miniature trash can in front of the counter, meant for quick disposal for their customers. He dumped the contents of the dustpan in there, attaching it back to the broom when he was finished.  
  
“Yes, my mistake. I sincerely apologize.” Each word was more pronounced than the next, not that he’d needed any indication she was being sarcastic. He stuck his tongue out at her, rather childish but no more than she was acting. This wasn’t the start of some romantic movie, ready to play out while rain knocked against the window of their bakery, and the streets filled with the smell of petrichor. Life was rarely so kind to him, the early triumphs of their business no doubt the blessings of Gods shining down their favor on Tatiana.  
  
It would have been easier to forget the attractive Spanish stranger, had he not come back the next day for a quick order of coffee. Martín’s head had snapped up, immediately drawn to the sound he knew could only have one source. Today, he wore a black blazer and dark pair of slacks, with a surprisingly casual maroon t-shirt tucked in. The man was fixated on Tatiana, giving her every ounce of his undivided attention. He kept just behind the window to avoid looking directly at him, the little green beast growling in his stomach as he had to listen to him waste a few of what Martín assumed were his best lines on his friend. She’d embraced not dating, he reminded himself, having been one of few in their state’s fog of teen marriages to support the decision, even if her instinct was to respond with lighthearted lines of her own. Stupidly, he wished he had reason to switch places with her when he caught a glimpse of the man’s mesmerizing eyes once again.  
  
Saturday morning saw a line out the door, both of them swapped with orders without a moment’s rest. Tatiana looked about ready to slump over the side of the counter, uncharacteristically dead on her feet. He stopped what he was doing, caught up on a few of the orders to give her a quick break. “I’ve got it from here. I’ll see you in five?”  
  
She patted his arm, smiling gratefully as she walked back to their public restrooms. A moment to wash the sleep from her face and stretch her legs would hopefully give her enough strength to get through the morning rush, or he’d have to give her a longer break to enjoy a coffee of her own. She avoided drinking the beverage herself, complaining of the anxious racing state it left on her heart, but the rush might have to be encouraged today. His own energy was depleted, until he caught sight of the familiar face a few bodies further down the line. Today, he kept his sunglasses on, the tinted lenses covering his eyes. Even for what Martín guessed was his day off, the man still looked better than most others on workdays. He had a cream linen suit on, the first three buttons undone to help with the already rising morning heat. The curve of the white undershirt showed little black curls on sun-kissed skin. Today, he wore a panama hat with a dark blue ribbon wrapped around. Martín forced himself to look at the buttons of their register, nodding along to what the customer in front of him was requesting rather than _him._  
  
Frustratingly, Tatiana was still not back by the time the man came to the counter. He tucked his sunglasses into his breast pocket, and when Martín could no longer avoid looking at him, he could feel his clammy palms and the bobble in his throat. “Buenas tardes.” The words tumbled off his tongue, awkward and revealing of just how mystified he felt. He bit the inside of his cheek, mortified.  
  
“Long day already, Martín? It’s only—10 o’clock in the morning. That’s hardly afternoon.” The jest was evident by the smile on his face, patient and understanding of the grueling hours that he must put in before the doors were unlocked to the public.  
  
“Busy, but promising,” he replied, tapping the rip of the fish bowl they used as a tip jar. “We’ll be able to bring in another worker very soon.”  
  
“Excellent. I’d hate for anyone else to be charged with making my breakfast. The world’s okayest barista should stay where he’s most comfortable.”  
  
“I’m not supposed to touch the machines. Hopefully Tatiana is less guarded around our new employee.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Where is our lovely barista today?” Martín’s shoulders shrunk at the returned obvious interest in his friend, fingers curling around the counter around him with the rush of jealousy and protectiveness coming over him. He wouldn’t meddle though, knowing she was more than capable of turning down any misplaced interest herself.  
  
“Taking a quick break,” he grumbled.  
  
“I see. I’ll have to thank her for the privilege of seeing you again, then.” Martín hated how his heart skipped a beat so easily, the magnetism of this man pulling him in beyond his control. “What do you recommend?”  
  
From up this close, he hated how easy it was to see the specks of grey between black hairs, poking out from under his hat. Normally, he wouldn’t find the color so attractive, but it seemed to make the man look wiser than his years, certain he could be no more than five years his senior. When the man blinked at him, waiting for a response, he forced himself to say the first thing that came to mind. “You don’t just take black coffee?”  
  
The man raised his eyebrow, clearly not amused by the assumption. “If I did, I wouldn’t have asked what you would suggest.”  
  
“Then let me surprise you. Any allergies I should be aware of?”  
  
“No.”  
  
The intrigued smile gave Martín all the permission he needed to type in an order he thought the man in front of him might like. It was his best guess, based on the more popular items on the menu coupled with things he liked himself. The lavender latte took a little getting used to at first sip, but the flavor enhanced the coffee in a unique way. Tatiana always did an excellent job with it, and his buttery kouign-amann an opportunity to show off once again. “Name for the order?”  
  
“Andrés. To stay.”  
  
“I’ll have it right to you.” He threw the receipt away on his side, already hearing Tatiana’s voice in his head telling him off for not giving the man his number. It was easier for her to act when she wanted to, but the same could not be said of him. He ignored the words making the vein in his forehead pop. This was only their second conversation, and he would not put himself out in the open for such public humiliation on a busy Saturday.  
  
At least now, he had a pretty name attached to the handsome face. Andrés was far nicer than _the stranger._  
  
From the corner of his eye, he could see Tatiana making her way back. He quickly turned for the kitchen, telling the next customer in line it would only be a minute until they would be helped. He ignored the immediate way her face lit up when she saw who was walking away from their line, certain there would be no end to her theories and master plans the first moment they had alone. Until then, he could seek out the solitude of his kitchen with the aggravating LANY song Tatiana loved so much snapping in the background, toes curling against his best efforts to stay in control of his actions.  
  
Two things were undeniable. First, he really needed to take his friend’s suggestions off their shared _M &T _playlist. Second, he really needed to put an immediate end to his attraction to Andrés.


	2. Chapter 2

Armed with a new playlist and a renewed sense of self-control, Martín arrived earlier than usual on Sunday morning. He’d been unable to sleep the night before, tossing and turning between his light cotton sheets. Even with the air conditioning turned up, drowning out the summer heat so much he had almost needed a jumper to keep from freezing, Something was on his mind that he couldn’t quite place his finger on, and try as he might to close himself off to the pestering stimulus, eyes tight and face burrowed in his pillow, he’d been unable to sleep. Grumbling into the plush material under his head, he’d briefly considered admitting what was bothering him, but refused to utter clichés like that aloud. When it came to be a quarter to ten, he’d given up on the venture all together, resigned to his fate of being dead on his feet by the middle of the day. He’d scrolled through his multiple playlists and suggested songs, working hard to put together a new list Tatiana would be unable to flutter her eyelashes and blow little kisses at him over. His friend’s badgering could be endearing, sweet and ever so supportive of him in the best of days. It would not be the case after failing to get a solid six hours of sleep before work, especially not when the most likely source was also attached to him doing his job.   
  
The still of the morning reminded him of walking home under the rising cover of dark after a shift at the bar. Fond memories of his past employment were at least something better to think about than the image dancing across his mind as he started to prepare the cocoa powder for the morning’s pastries. Brown was nothing more than yet another color, and a particularly common one at that. Preparing things for their menu shouldn’t be influencing infatuation, when there were plenty of other things to be worried about. The yeast working to make the dough rise in one of the mixing bowls was just as unpredictable as his minute attractions, but only one of them was the difference between success and bankruptcy.   
  
He dragged the flat spoon around the rim of one of the bowls, the strain in his arm a welcomed distraction. Strong muscles in his forearms had been built throughout the years of working in different kitchens, but mixing dough by hand always gave him the ability to skip a more traditional gym. They’d purchased one electric mixer, knowing they might need the assistance on their busier days, but the thing was currently in one of the cabinets collecting dust. There was something special about putting in the extra care and doing everything yourself, even when it wasn’t practical. Next, he sprayed the tin cookie sheet before grabbing the cookie scoop. It was probably a little too early to bake fresh ones, but if he let them chill he could throw together a fluffy frosting used to sandwich them together.   
  
Tatiana had refused to bring Andrés his food, even as Martín tried to furiously insist that there was too much to be done in the kitchen. She promised him that everything would still be there and not burnt, even if it meant drink orders were left waiting while she took over his responsibilities while he was away from his station. He’d picked up the ceramic plate holding the pastry, strawberries laid around it by Tatiana’s design. The coffee cup had been sat down next to the order Martín had chosen, yet another artisan coffee even from a short distance. Upon further inspection, he had wished she didn’t have a natural affinity for coffee art. She’d prepared the tan latte with foamy white lines, wide at the bottom and narrowed towards the top mimicking leaves. He had wanted to stick one of the three pieces of lavender laid over the cup to stir up the image, but knew better than to touch her masterpiece.   
  
Andrés had taken the seat closest to the window again, but this time his laptop was missing. The black sketchbook was back in front of him, pencils laid across a blank page. He was holding one of the blue pencils in his hand when Martín reached the table, but only tapped the dull lead against the top corner. Acutely aware of the position of the paper, Martín put down the drink in front of him, before placing the food down next to it. “We do a specialty coffee with local lavender,” he explained, though it felt redundant with the flower there to speak for him.   
  
Andrés had raised a curious eyebrow, and glanced between him and the beverage. A softer smile had etched across his face, drawn easier than whatever piece he was trying to work on, as he admired the foam that had slowly started to disperse in his drink. “ _Floral_ coffee?”   
  
Martín had only nodded in response, agreeing silently that the idea seemed foreign at first. Tatiana had spoken proudly of it when she suggested adding it to their specialty menu, fond memories of a trip to south eastern France fueling her desire to craft something special with it. He remembered trying it for the first time, and had fully expected that he would use his veto to turn down the idea. The moment the warm liquid had met his taste buds, a relaxed feeling accompanied it. The taste was overall subtle and surprisingly calming when mixed with the coffee and milk. As he watched Andrés raise the cup to his lips and take his first sip, he saw the same look he knew he’d worn when Tatiana made him try it. He placed the cup back down, properly savoring it as Martín knew it should be. “It’s not an everyday necessity, but still something special.”   
  
“Not going for the hard sell of coming here every morning?”   
  
“I didn’t say that.” He grinned as he pointed to the flaky pastry, still surprisingly warm. “This was the last one for the day, and I think it will get you first in the door.”   
  
“It’s a little fattening to have for my daily breakfast,” Andrés had replied, twisting the plate with two of his fingers as he inspected it.   
  
“Then you’ll just have to keep trying new things off our breakfast menu and save this one for once a week.”   
  
“That’s still a little addictive, don’t you think? And, not to mention the cost associated with indulging in daily visits when I really should be better about preparing my own coffee at home.”   
  
Martín had taken a step back from the table, hands raised to show innocence. He glanced back over at Tatiana, who was just returning from the kitchens. The line had only grown in the meantime, leaving him with guilt at his continued conversation. He hadn’t even sure where he was trying to make any of this go, or why he had opened his mouth or hung around after he’d put the food down on the table. He had a job to do and even though there were tips to be earned, he couldn’t stay at one table forever.   
  
But, the idea of Andrés making his own coffee at home when this was his third visit to their bakery in as many days, had planted a little thought in his head. He had looked back at him as he took his first bite of the kouign amann. With a smile, he quipped back knowing the other man wouldn’t speak with his mouth full. “I think we already baited you in. Might as well set up a direct line between your bank account and our company.”   
  
He’d placed the pastry back down on the plate before he grabbed one of the napkins in front of him. He covered his mouth, and his eyes had lit up at the joke. Martín didn't need to see his smile to know it was there, proud of himself for his quick wit despite the growing flutter somewhere in his own stomach. He still hadn’t heard Tatiana calling desperately for him, despite the way the door had opened and closed consistently in his peripheral vision. He had known he really should get back to work, but his feet had remained planted where they were.   
  
When he had finished the bite of food, Andrés had placed down the napkin. “Perhaps I do have my reasons to keep coming back to your coffeeshop.” The moment he had spoken, he turned his head back to focus on his work. Martín had shoved his hands in his pockets, and taken his cue to go back to work. As he had walked back to the kitchen, Martín knew he had to be mistaken. Andrés’ focus had lingered for a moment too long, but it didn’t mean his mind hadn’t made up the intrigue in his brown eyes or the curve of thin lips with what could be wrongly interpreted flirtatious.   
  
He sang along to the song coming from the radio, lost in the memory instead of the lyrics. He went back to just baking, letting the artist produce the music for him until suddenly the gloomy tempos no longer filled his ear. He rolled his eyes knowing immediately what had happened, and wiped his hands down the black apron. He threw open the door, met with an ever angelic looking Tatiana holding up his unplugged phone. “That song was sad, do I need to get out the ice cream and move you to the sofa?”   
  
“No, there’s nothing to be concerned about.”   
  
She rubbed her lips together, as though the words were knocking around in her mouth barely contained. She placed his phone back down next to the stereo, but her eyes never left him. “You’re flustered, I think.”   
  
With a deep breath, he shook his head. “Just didn’t sleep well. Too much on my mind.”   
  
And it wasn’t a lie, but enough to speak to how much he did not want to elaborate. Any new signs of interest, from sweaty palms to irregular heart beats always worried him. He jumped in blindly, far too often blissfully unaware of the warning signs that would protect him. Even something a stupid as finding someone new attractive was overwhelming, the burden of deciding if it was actually worth it to begin simple steps worth it. It was always harder for him, even in the atmosphere of the more tolerant capital city, to know for sure if people were just being friendly, or even if genuine interest stemmed from something more than a longing to experiment. He was too old and too busy for a younger man’s game, and whatever pull he felt for Andrés did not leave room for him to want anything casual. He knew it was stupid to be drawn in after only two passing conversations that couldn’t have lasted for more than five minutes.   
  
She plugged in her phone, shuffling one of their daily playlists over his selection. Taking a step forward, she squeezed his hand reassuringly. “You worry too much over nothing.” 

  
“I worry just the right amount, thank you very much,” he corrected, keeping his tone more lighthearted than his pensive mood reflected.   
  
“As long as you’re sure.” It was all she had to say, careful not to pry until he was ready to divulge more. He was grateful for it, ready to finish the morning preparations in an usual silence. At least this time, the cocoa or shaved pieces of chocolate didn’t make his mind wander too far from the task in front of him.   
  
The morning sun illuminated the room before he was ready for it, blinking as his eyes strained in from the brightness. Behind the wall of his kitchen, he should have been better protected. If this kept up, coupled with his depleting energy, he would need to reach into Tatiana’s purse and pull out the pair of polarized pink sunglasses he knew she kept there. Luckily, Sunday mornings were easier than Saturdays, with most people not getting out of bed until a few hours after opening. A few regulars would arrive to pick up their morning coffee and take a few things from the display case, but until brunch started he would have very little to do. She washed her hands before removing her dirty black apron, switching it for the dark jean one she insisted they wore on Sundays. It was the only day he let her dress him, a light blue winstead stripe polo in place of his usual black attire today. She’d insisted on the tweed flat cap, promising that the look was professional and not _pretentious._ The hat felt funny on his head, but even he had to admit how well it suited him. He came out of the kitchen after cleaning up his own mess, his own dirty apron replaced with a new one.   
  
Tatiana had been using their slower days to start showing him how to use the microfoam to produce images of his own, giggling whenever he ended up whisking it away before a customer saw his disaster. Still, he was ever eager to learn something new while she was still willing to teach. “You need a steady hand,” she reminded him, watching as he picked up the metal pitcher. The clock on the wall ticked a few minutes to opening, and she made her way to the front door while he practiced. Hearts were the easiest art to make, and he was slowly starting to accomplish the shape.   
  
“Buenas tardes, Martín,” the familiar voice teased, making his hand veer off its course to the side. His cheeks felt warmer, eyes trained on the liquid dripping off his hand from the mess. He refused to look up at Andrés like this, instead opting to turn his back immediately for the sink. He hated how the gentle laugh tickled his ears, the skin already flushed pink like the rest of his face without additional help. It wasn’t meant to mock him though, the words serving as a private joke between the two of them more than anything else. Had he already not been preoccupied with thoughts about this man all morning, he might have had a better leg to stand on now.   
  
He turned on the water, looking back over his shoulder only when he was certain he would not further humiliate himself. “See, I knew you were codependent. What will it be this morning?”   
  
“Tea this morning. I’m not ready for caffeine.”   
  
As he dried his hands, he spotted the vintage canvas bag tucked under Andrés’ arm. The leather strap crossed over his chest. Even with the heat summer brought with it, he was dressed in long black pants. Though the material seemed loose enough to be breathable, he wondered if the man just had an usual hatred for shorts or a small obsession for making the best impression he could. The sleeves of his shirt stopped just past his shoulder, the speckled blue making his eyes pop. His eyes followed the curve of his jaw down to the smooth shape of his neck, clean shave even for a lazy Sunday morning. The buttons of his shirt were done up today, and he’d clumsily admit he missed the curly chest hairs if anyone asked him. Lean arm muscles caught his eye next, the first physical indicator of his commitment to taking care of his body other than his comment about eating healthier foods. Martín’s bottom lip folded between his teeth as he admired him. He looked more the part of a modern artist today, just missing a hat similar to the one Martín wore on his head now.   
  
Without thinking, he took it off his head and waved it in Andrés’ direction. “I think you’re missing an accessory. Don’t all the best artists wear these?”   
  
Andrés closed his eyes, his smile widening just enough to display a little of his top teeth. “I appreciate the offer Martín, but I was enjoying looking at you in it.”   
  
His heart thumped excitedly at the compliment, coming to stand in front of him with only the counter between them. He tried to rationalize that the man was probably just a natural flirt, judging by the way he had been speaking with his friend only a few days prior. He couldn’t get his hopes up like this, especially when his own thoughts and feelings were only based on a fleeting crush. Still, another part of him argued against his cautious mind, yearning to lean more into their interaction. Other people were allowed to have meet-cute stories of how they met. Why shouldn’t he? Andrés was still grinning at him, all of his attention Martín’s for the taking as if they were the only two left in the room. Tatiana’s giggle broke the stillness between them, immediately cut off as quickly as it came. He shot his friend a look, hand twitching as he tried not to hold up a finger to shush her. Her intertwined hands covered her lips, an apologetic look in her eyes for the accidental ridicule.   
  
When he looked back at Andrés, he had stepped over to browse the case of pastries and previously made food. Martín’s shoulders shrunk, disappointed whatever had just happened was over as quickly as it came. He knew Tatiana hadn’t meant anything by it, but he was ready to storm back into the kitchen. He didn’t get doe-eyed for this very reason: it was all based on faux principles of romanticism and too unrealistic to maintain. His own critical views of the honeymoon phase might hold him back from a steady relationship, but it also kept him safe.   
  
“I’ll let her finish your order.”   
  
Andrés stood a little taller then, back in control of his own senses. He turned his head, glancing around the otherwise empty café. “Or you could join me, if Tatiana doesn’t mind. The bags under your eyes suggest you either need eye cream or coffee.”   
  
“Martín already finished everything for this morning, I’m sure I can take over from here,” she encouraged, pointing to one of the closer tables. “Get comfortable and I’ll bring something out in a minute.”   
  
He shot his friend a look, her own quick answer denying him any right to object. He knew she was fully aware of the list of counter-arguments his brain was ready to ramble on about, working down the list until the sun set on the other side of the sky. She just looked back at him, nodding along as though she could pick the thoughts straight from his brain. With her right hand on her hip, she pointed to the table Andrés had already started walking over to. If this was her idea of playing matchmaker, she really needed to remember it didn’t work so easily when it came to two men. For all he knew, this was just a friendly conversation. There had been so little to go off to encourage his thoughts, his own stupidly hopeful musings wanting to at least try. He just didn’t know if he could handle the sting of rejection, especially in the secure walls of his own bakery. The verbal confirmation he had read too much into things could easily slap across his face and stain bitter memories into the walls, ruining his achievements before they’d even been open for a month.   
  
“Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth, finally following Andrés. He pulled out one of the other chairs when he reached the table, sitting across from him. He wondered why he’d even been invited as Andrés started to pull some of his materials from the bag, opting for a smaller red sketchbook than the one Martín had seen previously. “How long have you been making art?”   
  
“I started seven years ago,” he replied, hands still moving around his bag as he looked for two identical pens.   
  
“And do you do it professionally?”   
  
“I work in the Corporate Trust department at one of the banks not far from here. But, I sell art at a few of the farmer or artisan markets during the summer.” His fingers curled around the cover of his book, as though fighting the urge to immediately get to work. Martín wondered why he felt the need to invite him to take a spot at the table if he was so focused on his artwork, coming across rather rude now. At the very least, it was enough to start shutting down some of his false romantic hopes.   
  
“If you prefer to get to work, I can get back to mine.”   
  
Andrés flattened his hand on the top of his book, shaking his head. “I didn’t intend to be rude. Inspiration is often hard to control.”   
  
Martín saw his fingers curling against the cover, still twitching. He understood that urge. Many nights he had woken up after dreaming of the next scone he wanted to make, or the best ingredients to twist into the dough of a croissant. “I’ve woken up in the middle of the night, made an entire batch of things, and almost burned the house down. Tatiana’s threatened to come by at night and lock my cabinets.”   
  
And there it was again, the light chuckle barely audible but still making his heart beat in time with it. This man was too alluring and he could let it all envelope him if he wasn’t careful. “Muses are best left wild and untamed, free to come and go as they see fit.”   
  
“Are you just agreeing with me so I’ll think you are less rude while you ignore me to work on your drawing?”   
  
“You went back to work before I was able to pay you my compliments. I’m not one for sweets, and your pastry was one of the best I’ve ever had. It’s unsurprising you are met with the same urges I do.” He opened one of the pages, and while his hands blocked the image he was working on, Martín was too mesmerized by the way his hands moved in sync to care to see what he was producing. They did not always stay that way, instead stopping from time to time to only work with one. The other would remain curved over the final product, but the curve of Andrés’ brow as he focused, the small part between his lips as his eyes skirted over the page and darted up on occasion as though checking his reference, kept him occupied. He worked with speed and precision, pausing only as two white mugs were placed in between them.   
  
He closed the book before Martín had the opportunity to see a single line of what he’d been working on, but left it on the table between the two of them. He expressed his thanks to Tatiana, before his attention came back to Martín for the time being. As he lifted the cup from the serving plate, he asked, “How long have you been open?”   
  
“Less than a month. We’d been planning on this for a while, and everything was ready three weeks ago.”   
  
“I imagine it must be hard to start your own business, especially when there are so many bakeries already in the city.”   
  
“Tatiana and I had a few regulars at our previous restaurants who were excited for us to start a business of our own. Between that and her social media skills, we’ve gotten off on a good foot.”   
  
Andrés’ eyes softened at his comment, but he said nothing in return. He placed the cup back on the plate, stirring the hot liquid with the small spoon, thoughts creating a distraction he did not want to speak of. There was nothing that should have elicited such a reaction from the other man, no cause for injury or insult in stating a simple fact. Their collection of regulars were now stemming to include a few who had stumbled across the café on their own, but it did not change the way they’d had to craft their business. Dread filled him next, considering the idea that he had been brought in by Tatiana’s skill set more than his own. It didn’t make sense, not with the way he had specifically asked for Martín’s company over hers. He didn’t seem the type to be so clueless, or to unnecessarily use him to make someone else jealous. It all had to be in his own head then, his mind playing tricks on him to try and get him to panic instead of enjoying the simplicity of his morning.   
  
“I’m sure it’s easier with your talents to draw in a crowd,” he complimented.   
  
“We have years of experience between the two of us, and pretty faces are always an advantage.” He swallowed his tongue at the sudden surge of self-assurance that possessed him, but watched Andrés’ face for an indication he was humored or otherwise provoked by the words. Instead, he only took another sip of his mint tea.   
  
In front of him in the distance, the door pushed open, and he immediately recognized the two walking in. Mirko was dressed down, a ball cap covering his head, cheap sunglasses over his eyes, a tank-top and shorts ready for what he knew would be a warm day. He was accompanied by Agata, one of his friends Martín had met and spoken to on occasion at the bar. She looked different in the flowing summer dress she wore, but always in style for the venue she occupied. He turned his head back towards Andrés after giving his friends a subtle nod, knowing he was running out of time to enjoy his coffee and company before the call back to work would prove too strong.   
  
“You’ve tried my food, you’ll have to show me your art sometime,” Martín prompted, a little too eagerly for his liking. He could hardly be blamed for wanting to continue the morning away from his workplace, or taking a shot after the first potential move had been made by Andrés.   
  
“I’ll be at the summer markets tonight, if you’re going. There are a few vendors you might like to buy produce from, ” he said, tapping one finger against the back of Martín’s hand. A minute spark of electricity warmed Martín’s hand from the touch, a quick breath at the immediate reaction. Whatever this beginning was, there were strong odds in his favor that the initial attraction was at least mutual.   
  
“I’ll look for you,” he promised, quickly finishing the rest of his coffee as the door opened once again.   
  
From the small window of his kitchen, he could see Mirko sitting alone at one of the tables. Agata had made her way to sit in front of Andrés while he cooked their order. _Small world_ , he thought. He couldn’t remember what it was she did, but wondered if they worked together at the bank. Even from their limited interactions, he couldn’t see any other ties that would place the two of them in the same social circles. Andrés had more tension in his forehead when she got back up from the table, hints of embarrassment evident in the way he fixated on a point on the wall over anything else. He tried not to dwell on any of it, knowing it truly wasn’t his place. Orders were pouring in anyway, his priority for the remainder of the day.   
  
Still, the nutty smell of coffee mixed with the bursts of vanilla and bergamot of Andrés’ cologne came back to him throughout the morning. Their discussion, however brief, was the highlight of his day, able to get him through the rush of brunch orders Tatiana kept giving him. Every so often, he would pause from his work to see if the man had left, only to be met with him still working diligently in his sketchbook. It would be nice to see the art he felt so inspired to create in his coffee shop, happy the ambiance of music and decorations was working to their advantage. With one artist already in their midst, it would potentially only be a short while until others followed suit. The steadier flow of consistent customer’s they got, the better their business would have done by the end of the year.   
  
Another glimpse revealed Tatiana, standing over his shoulder. Every so often, he would turn his head just enough to look at her, before pointing to one of the lines on his page. With a _humph_ , he picked up the spice container to measure for the dish he was preparing. It was good for her to go out and interact with the customers if they stood a chance at driving loyalty, but he still wished she’d told him to go do it. It wasn’t fair that he had to wait to see the finished product while Tatiana got to see sneak peeks of the work in progress. Andrés’ smile was different around her, definitely less lit up and more friendly than the one he’d seen at breakfast. He tore his glance away from the window again, eyes watching as his hand used the spatula to move the french toast onto a plate instead. The fuzzy feeling in his chest didn’t dissipate any less, though, sticking with him for the next hour.   
  
Inevitably, one of the times he looked up out the window the table was filled by someone new. His lip tugged into a disappointed frown all the same, even though he knew he couldn’t have stepped away from his work to bid a polite farewell anyway. Tatiana was currently busy cleaning up her station, the line gone but a few orders still on the stove in front of him. There were a few random pastries left on the shelves, another sign of a profitable day. He’d been unable to step away from the kitchen to help with any of the cleaning, and it would be a few hours before they were able to get out of the café for the night. He was already feeling light on his feet, the lack of sleep and hours of hard work wearing him thin. If not for the promise of seeing Andrés again, he might have entertained the idea of sending Tatiana alone to pick up their ingredients for the week. They might have to attach a caffeine drip directly into his arm, but he wasn’t going to miss it for the world.   
  
He scrambled a quick serving of eggs for himself as the last customer left, Tatiana locking the door behind them. He leaned against one of the counters, holding the black handle in one hand while he ate directly from the pan. Tatiana rolled her eyes at him as she stepped into the kitchen, making her way to the faucet to begin work on the pile of dishes poking above the line of the sink.   
  
“Did you have a good day, Martín?” She sang her question, wiggling her eyebrows at him. He nodded, mouth still full of the latest bite of eggs. “I would think so.”   
  
“Business was good and the tip jar looked full. Maybe I can eat more than ramen this week.”   
  
She paused, folding her arms over her chest. “That’s not what I meant at all,” she pouted.   
  
“I don’t know what else you could be talking about.” He winked as she grumbled, avoiding the topic he knew very well how much she wanted to talk about. There wasn’t much to tell anyway, beyond the few trademark ‘ _getting to know you’_ introductory questions and answers they’d exchanged. Gathering some of the dishes closest to him,he made his way over to the sink. She went back to washing as he dried others.   
  
After a moment of falling into the routine of getting things done, she paused briefly. He recognized the mischievous look on her face, already wanting to groan in the safety of his hands. Tatiana picked up two of the spoons from the sink, turning the round parts to face each other. "You're so attractive," she mimicked in her best Spanish accent. "No, you are," she said for the other spoon, imitating her best Argentine accent. She pressed them together then, smiling proudly at her little show.

"Do I need to go buy you Barbies? Because you're supposed to be doing the dishes," he responded, balling up the tea towel to throw playfully at her face. He didn't need the growing smirk on her face to tell him his face was beet red, already feeling the heat for himself.

She bent down to pick up the discarded towel, still smiling at him. “You’re swooning!”   
  
“We barely talked over coffee before it was back to work.”   
  
“I know you better than that. Besides, he was here for hours afterward, don’t think I missed him trying to look at you from behind your ridiculous wall,” she corrected.   
  
“He let you see his work, he didn’t let me. How do I know he wasn’t actually here to make a good impression for you?”   
  
“No, don’t start on that.” She turned the water off, before she waved her finger in front of his face. “You think he likes you too, and you don’t get to put yourself down.”   
  
“I’m just being realistic.”   
  
“It's realistic to accept Andrés was here to see you four times this week. If more people had been here this morning, they all would have seen the sparks I did. I know you felt them.”   
  
He finished drying the last dish in front of him. She had a point, as she usually did. He’d been invited to see his booth at the market, after enjoying a quick cup of coffee. Reading between the lines, it was clearly meant to be the start of something new. If he was in the same position of trying to gauge interest, he would have acted similarly. Each step forward would be carefully calculated before he put his foot down, certain his foot wouldn’t sink in the mud with it. The only way to see where any of this would go was to keep positive, and make the next move by keeping his promise to see him later that evening.   
  
He stretched his arms behind his head, letting out a yawn, shoulders popping as he did. “He did say to come see him tonight. Are you still planning on coming with me to get ingredients?”   
  
She poked his chest, playfully. “I’ll be there to do the shopping, but I’m not interrupting your _date._ ”   
  
“It’s not a date,” he grumbled back. “At most, we are just going to talk more and he’ll try to sell me one of his pieces.”   
  
“It’s not a date,” she mimicked. “ Queriño, when that man ends up asking you to spend more time with him after tonight, you’ll be doing the dishes for the rest of the month.”   
  
“What makes you so positive you’re right?”   
  
She tapped his cheek with the palm of her hand, smiling proudly. “I have _eyes_ . I saw the sparks, remember? The way he tapped your hand and all his pretty smiles, just for you.” Martín wanted to hide behind the collar of his shirt, positive his face was still getting more red with each reminder. Maybe it wasn’t so impossible to believe he was the reason Andrés wanted to stay around the café, instead of moving his work back to the confines of his own home. Tatiana looked pleased with herself at his silence, knowing she proved her point. “Go get some sleep so these bags under your eyes are gone before this evening. I’ll see you in a few hours.”   
  
He did as instructed, tempted to roll onto the sofa instead of making the journey a few miles back to the comfort of his bed. He took one last glance at the place they had shared their morning caffeine. With the right amount of luck, it wouldn’t be their last conversation or opportunity to see if the seemingly mutual attraction meant anything.


	3. Chapter 3

He tapped that dashboard, looking out the window as buildings passed by. The short journey to the market seemed longer tonight, despite the lighter traffic with the grey clouds rolling in. Rain wasn’t on the forecast until later in the evening, but the drop in temperature was appreciated after such a hot day. It might discourage a few of the vendors from participating that evening, but there was only one he had his mind on anyway. Skilled hands of an artist and the curved sly smile, teeth that were crooked but in a stupidly endearing way he couldn’t stop thinking about, and a damned thick Spanish accent had fed into his dreams during his nap. It all felt ridiculous, the way he couldn’t stop thinking about his friendly banter with Andrés, or the sparkle he swore he could see in the other man’s eyes. The promise of seeing him outside the coffee shop made his heart flutter just as much as it increased the knot between his shoulders, torn between the excitement and jittery nerves. A benefit of the open air market was the endless amount of stalls to browse, each offering different specialties: from cooking oils, meats, produce, and scattered artisans. The downside meant that each vendor was free to close up shop whenever they felt the need to browse or stretch their legs, little signs placed up on their tables to signal their expected return. At least in his own space, he was justified in being torn between wanting to enjoy the other man’s company freely, and running back to the kitchen not to abandon his fellow employee. Now, the control in their interactions was placed solely on Andrés, and whether or not Martín was capable of keeping his attention for very long. Then again, Tatiana probably would’ve left him alone at that table until he’d made a fool out of himself, not that he was completely certain he hadn’t found a minor way to do that already. He huffed, ignoring how foolish this all still felt, between her friendly teasing and the charming smile his brain kept reproducing little images of.   
  
He turned his head to look at her, eyes hidden behind tinted over-sized sunglasses. Always ethereal, her chosen aesthetic for the evening meant she would blend in more with the usual Sunday evening crowd. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun by a large clip, curls falling around her shoulders to cup her face. The sheer grey cardigan hung off her shoulders, mid-rise shorts and crop top the standard uniform for most bohemian-inspired women he’d seen at these things. He relaxed his back, sticking his legs out further in front of him as he considered the simple reasoning by her decision to blend in with the masses: she would be able to spot him from a mile away in the outfit she’d chosen for him, and he’d be none the wiser to when she felt her babysitting necessary. He crossed his arms over his chest, wondering why he’d ever agreed to let him dress him outside of the cafe.    
  
Though, at least the clothes were a benefit in his favor. A plain white tank top was tucked into one of his tightest fitting pairs of black jeans; they were undeniably his favorite pair and always worked to boost his confidence. The zip up combat boots gave him a height advantage, though not by much depending on what Andrés settled on wearing for the evening. The usual ensemble was accompanied by a new shirt Tatiana had brought with her to his apartment, and upon taking it out of the bag he’d quickly thrown the old striped button down in favor of the new one. The shiny mesh top had designs of black, white, and gold, serving as a statement piece to further work in his favor.    
  
“It’s not too late to turn around,” he offered, pointing his finger behind him as they passed one of the chain grocery stores. Despite his rising confidence, it was worth a shot. “Plenty of ingredients right there.”    
  
She turned her head to look at him once, a bright smile on her face at least amused by his best efforts. “And waste all my good work?” 

“Was worth a shot.”    
  
Glancing down at the outfit one last time, he’d admit she had at least done well picking something she knew he’d like. The car made the final turn up the short hill, winding up the gravel road leading to the farm. For being just a short ways off the main road, there was enough distance to paint a serene setting. The large dark brown barn, unusually shaped in an inverted-v, sat off to the side but immediately drew attention. Behind it, the park lot expanded into wide open spaces. Gravel roads were currently used to plant stands, while others had taken residence on freshly mowed grass. Mountains to the right seemed closer than the ones to the left, but both worked together to give the impression of encased surroundings. Despite the grey skies, groups of runners were taking advantage of the circular walking paths that branched out into clumps of trees, leading away from the hustle of the market. It was the perfect setting—if he could just keep his nerves in check. 

Tatiana reached behind her seat, grabbing the reusable bags they’d stashed. Martín reached for the list he’d written, tucked away carefully in the safety of his wallet. She stuck her hand out expectantly, smoothing out the creases in the paper when he handed it to her. “And you’re sure this is all we needed?” 

“I’ll just walk around with you and we can add to the list as we go,” he winked. 

She pushed down the rim of her glasses, glancing seriously at him. “You don’t have to do this. We really can turn the car back around.” 

This time, though, his hand wrapped around the door handle. He could see the arrangement of craft and artist tents from here, Andrés’ blending in somewhere amongst the rows. Curiosity was propelling him forward, coupled with the promise of at least another friendly conversation. With his best smile, he looked back at her. “Looking this good? It’s his loss if he’s not interested.” 

“That’s the spirit!” 

Both opened up their car doors, walking down towards the white picket fence entrance. He pushed it open for her, giving a bow before she veered in the opposite direction. The ground was soft beneath his shoes, wet grass leaving drops of dew on his shoes. He turned his head from side to side, ignoring most of the items across tables or stored in wooden boxes while he looked for Andrés’ tent. If he had to guess, none of them appeared to be the type of art he’d sell, and he’d otherwise been unable to spot the other man thus far. 

“Martín!” Ágata’s voice was riddled with excitement, calling his name loud enough he cringed. Everyone would be capable of hearing her voice echoing in the low buzzes of conversations throughout the market, and he hated the attention that came with it. 

She was sitting on one of the tables, covered by a pale tablecloth just a few rows down, swinging her legs with her hands wrapped around the edge. She grinned at him as he found his way over, returning a smile of his own. “I’m not deaf, you don’t have to scream,” he reminded her. 

“Cabrón, I’ve not seen you in weeks! You can’t blame me for being excited.” 

“I saw you at the café earlier,” he corrected. To the side of one of her legs sat a small box, filled with picture frames arranged sticking up. Silver frames held black and white photographs, while soft golden ones contained sepia and gently colored ones. He started browsing the box with one hand, hardly taking time to recognize the painted sceneries or the occasional sketch for what they were. 

“You didn’t say  _ hello _ . Not that I can blame you, you did seem  _ busy _ .” 

He looked up at her, just in time to see her wiggle her eyebrows at him. He rolled his eyes, looking past her at some of the other items further back in the tent. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you did art.” 

“I don’t. Andrés stepped away for a moment and I’m helping him today.” 

He nodded, grateful it explained why he was unable to find him amongst the other stands, and that his short conversation with his friend hadn’t left Andrés waiting on him. It also set up the perfect opportunity for him to browse the contents of his store, in a way that wasn’t too invasive but also gave him more freedom. “That’s nice of you.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “I owed him, I lost a bet. Do you want to know that little story, cariño?” 

“Do I need to? I only met him this week, it might be crossing a line.” Her laugh started with a snort, hand quickly flying up to cover her mouth. Wild mirth highlighted her wide eyes, jumping to her feet before she fell over or knocked down the displays behind her. Still, he missed whatever seemed to be the cause of her amusement. “Is there something I’m missing?” 

“No, no,” she continued chortling, waving her hand. 

“I don’t believe you,” he grumbled, grimacing when he could see the little tears in the corners of her eyes.    
  
“You don’t need to, it doesn’t change my mind.” She pinched two fingers together, somehow managing amongst her laughter to zip them across her mouth.    
  
“You’re not a very good secret keeper, Ágata. It’s best if you just tell me.”    
  
Still, she held her ground, refusing to speak up. Choosing to ignore her if she wasn’t going to clue him in, he stepped around to the back. Larger portraits of the valley scenery, a few musical instruments, and scattered arrangements of abstract images were displayed carefully by size and color. He stopped in front of each, taking his time to admire Andrés’ work. He never had the patience for this type of work, preferring to keep constantly busy as he moved around the kitchen. The time spent on just one of these paintings would probably be an entire morning’s worth of baking, and he shuddered at the thought of such fervent patience for the required dedication.    
  
The last portrait on display was shorter than the rest, but the most detailed. Lines came together to sketch rough hands, wrapped around a metal pitcher. Four fingers were wrapped around the small latte cup, hidden if not for the streaks of color highlighting the beverage. He ran his finger under his bottom lip, pinching the skin as he kept admiring the work. With only a torso, arms, and hands drawn in the image, anyone could have been the model in the image. But the scar on the back of his hand from the time he’d lost himself in chopping up onions for an order at the bar was detailed, staring back at him in the picture frame. Eyes widened slightly before he dropped his gaze, trying not to turn around and grab Ágata’s attention to brag about the image, nearly bouncing from foot to foot. If this is what Tatiana had been privy to before him, he’d admit it was worth the wait.    
  
Hands planted on his shoulders, making the grainy sheer material rub against his skin. The aroma of Andrés’ cologne was  sophisticated and fresh, the simple floral hints commanding his attention as he froze where he stood. Hands moved down his arms, slowly taking their time as they followed the curve of muscle in his biceps. Finally, Andrés turned him around, taking a step back as his hands fell back to his sides. “I see you found my latest piece.”    
  
“You didn’t do a good job hiding it, if I wasn’t meant to see it,” he challenged, trying to take his focus off the way his arms were still pleasantly warm from gentle touches.    
  
“There’s nothing to hide, now that it’s actually done. Tatiana refused to leave until I let her see a preview of it. Your friend is rather stubborn.”    
  
“Usually, it’s a bonus,” Martín replied with a shrug. He turned, picking up the frame by the edges with both hands. His eyes traced the small but special details, the ones making the hands unmistakably his while also highlighting the personal touches of Andrés’ style. “I imagine it’s easy to come up with good art when you’re blessed with such a good hand model.”    
  
“But increasingly difficult to get done when he insists on hiding behind a wall.”    
  
Martín grinned, lips parted enough to show the little gap between his top teeth. He set the frame back down on the table, arms crossed over his chest. “Well, now that I know handsome strangers are watching my every move maybe I’ll be more inclined to come out every now and again.”    
  
“ _ Strangers _ ,” Ágata teased, leaning back where she still sat on the far end of the table. The sour scowl on Andrés’ face spoke to something he was still missing, though he didn’t have an idea what that could be. It wasn’t worth worrying about here, not with Ágata's prying eyes and headphones twirled with her fingers instead of in her ears.    
  
Andrés was still distracted, face torn between looking at anywhere other than Martín, and cutting off anything else his friend felt compelled to say with the intensity in his eyes. He reached for Andrés’ hand, tilting his head towards the opening of the tent. It was enough to command his attention and for Ágata’s wink to almost be missed by both of them. He pulled them both forward a step, trying to coax the faint, bashful look away. “We can take a walk before it starts raining,” he suggested.    
  
Andrés’ arm looped with his, warming his side as a small gust of wind made a shiver crawl down his spine. The wind speed stayed calm, a cool summer’s breeze fitting with the grey skies breaking up overhead. At least the chance for heavy rain was reduced, an enjoyable drizzle their worst threat, allowing them plenty of time to continue some of their introductory conversation. He directed them towards the large field of wildflowers, veering off one of the main paths. The scattered arrangement daisies, butterfly weeds, cornflowers, mixed with endless others marked the trail into rows of sunflowers, extending overhead. They had been planted by intention, meant to make a summer maze while corn grew in the adjacent fields for autumn.    
  
“So how long have you known Ágata?”    
  
“A little less than a year. I was transferred here from Spain, and she insisted I get out and make friends. Apparently, it’s good to leave the office and be social occasionally.”    
  
“She’s good at that, even if it’s against your will,” he agreed, smiling when Andrés leaned closer to his side as they walked, the wind rustling the tall flowers surrounding them. Even with the gentle sway, they were granted privacy away to simply lean in and enjoy their afternoon.    
  
“Her preferred activities don’t line up very well with mine.”    
  
“You mean to tell me you’re not fond of spending your nights out on the town, forgetting what you did the night before? Color me surprised,” he snickered. Andrés’ noiseless laugh made his lips part, head bowed forward as he smiled.    
  
“There are few things I have time for between the hours I spend working and at my art studio,” he continued. “I imagine you have your own limited social hours with a new blooming business?” 

“Sleep and baking, what else could you need in life?”    
  
“I could think of a few things.” 

Andrés turned his head, ever so slightly to look at him. It was the first chance Martín had a chance to look at what he’d worn for the evening, the outfit a little more fitting for the crisp weather. Dark blue jeans were cuffed around the ankles, white socks with black dots poking out from laced up brown shoes. The grey long sleeve jacket covered a turtleneck in the same color, a simple leather watch around his list. He looked the fitting part of the handsome artist, always dressed appropriately for the occasion. He’d willing admit he was impressed, far too often needing Tatiana’s advice to come up with something so suiting himself. He swallowed as his eyes traced down Andrés’ face, his dark eyes still focused on Martín as they continued walking. His own eyes fell to thin lips, a pale pink and a tempting soft.    
“She said she lost a bet,” he stammered awkwardly, immediately wanting to smack his palm against his forehead at his own stupidity. 

“Ah. What else did she feel the need to share?” 

“Not much. She burst into a laughing fit when I asked if there was something I needed to know. I’m guessing there  _ is _ some joke I’m not aware of?” 

Andrés grinned but otherwise gave no answer, continuing to walk with him further into the fields. They were deep in the maze of sunflowers now, nothing but the tall stems and thin yellow petals opened towards what little sun poked through the clouds to keep them company. “It’s not her place to bring things up.” 

“Relax, you don’t have to be so defensive,” he answered, nudging him with his shoulder. 

“I can assure you, I—” 

“If I promise not to mock you, will you just tell me?” He asked again, earnest eyes speaking to his sincerity. 

Andrés’ other hand finally reached into the pocket of his jacket with hesitance, slowing their pace as he did. “A week ago, I had an interested  _ client _ stop by my booth. We’d been talking online for a while about a piece she wanted to buy..” His arm unlocked from Martín’s then, turning to face him. “Only, she ended up getting distracted looking through the box of badges I used to make.” 

He extended his palm, and Martín’s face lit up with recognition as he looked at the pattern. Unlike the modified version sitting in one of the counters back at the bakery, this one had a simpler design on the sleeve of the travel coffee mug. _The world’s okayest_ _barista_ was missing from the top, replaced with a cliche line _but coffee first_ in its place.“So, Tatiana bought it from you!” 

“She insisted it was quite the tale. While I worked on making her one with her specifications, she happened to start talking about her wonderful baker friend.” He shoved the badge back into his pocket, the tip of his tongue running across his bottom lip. His eyes fixed on the top of Martín’s head, nearly rocking on his feet as though he was almost ashamed of the ending of the story. Even with the new detail, something was still missing to connect all the dots for Martín, and clearly held some embarrassing factor for Andrés. 

“She sang my praises. I should be grateful she didn’t start sharing baby pictures.” 

The jest was enough for Andrés to find his composure again, body still but hands tucked into his coat pockets. “No, lucky for you she only shared the picture from opening day. And then started to immediately pry when I responded too rashly.” 

Martín tilted his head, trying to piece together the information Andrés was slowly giving him. The faint idea he’d recognized him when he first came into the cafe earlier that week came back to him, only stronger this time. Between whatever reaction Andrés had had when Tatiana showed him the photo, and all of Ágata’s whispered hints, an idea started to come to him. “ _ Had  _ we met before?” 

“I wondered if I should be offended you didn’t remember me, nearly as much as you left your impression on me.” His hands flirted with the opening of Martín’s shirt, electric sparks left against the thin fabric. His breath hitched at the touch, Andrés’ attempt to gain a little more dominance in their conversation. 

“You came into the bar! I thought you looked vaguely familiar.” 

“Only vaguely?” His lip curled, head tilted high. His hands never moved from their spot, thumb still running the seam of his shirt. “I should be offended.” 

“Malparido, do you know how many people I service there? You  _ should _ be honored.” 

“Yes, well. You left enough of an impression on me that the quality of the bar significantly diminished when you left.” Martín found his honesty endearing, cheeks flushed warm at standing out to the far more sophisticated man standing in front of him. The bar was never the best place to meet anyone or make a great first impression, the required uniforms unflattering on the best looking members of the staff. Even if he had noticed Andrés more on whatever occasions he came in, they would have been unimpressionable memories knowing he hardly stood a chance. 

He flexed his eyebrow, taking a step forward to bump his nose against the other man’s. “So you came and hunted  _ little old me  _ down, ever enchanted by my charms?” 

“Ágata picked a really shitty time to return from her break. She didn’t think I’d actually try to talk to you.” 

“And you just had to prove her wrong,  _ or  _ you just found me that irresistible?” 

Andrés searched his eyes for a moment, mirth betraying the amusement for Martín’s continued surge of confidence. Instead of saying anything, he pulled Martín closer by his shirt, planting a chaste kiss against his lips. There was something foreign and sweet mixing in with hints of tart cherries, the taste left lingering against Martín’s mouth as Andrés pulled away. “You talk too much, Martín.” 

He chased the tender kiss with one of his own, unwilling to let it end that quickly. It kept the slow pace of the first, telling of something new and exciting yet to be fully understood. It was more than just flattery that Andrés had been so fascinated by him that seeing him again in a photo encouraged him to visit the coffee shop. He wasn’t used to being the object of affectionate interest, usually the one made to play the role of the lover. The rush of new beginnings fueled him, one of his hands intertwining with Andrés as they pulled apart once more. 

“You don’t need an excuse, but you should know I won’t go home with you on the first date. Not that I’d call this a  _ date _ ,” he replied, waving his hand around to their surroundings. 

“I didn’t think asking you for a cup of coffee seemed appropriate, given the circumstances.”   
  
“I don’t think Tatiana would appreciate catering, and I’m not doing it. You’ll just have to be a little more creative than that. It shouldn’t be that hard for you.” 

They turned back towards the markets, still walking hand in hand in a comfortable silence. The late hour brought the temperature further down with it, much warmer clothes needed before he’d want to stay outside. Hurdling closer together as they made their way back to Andrés’ tent wasn't enough to warm him, the unfortunate truth they’d probably both catch a summer cold if they didn’t find their way indoors shortly made Martín frown. Not wanting to rush the evening to a quick end, the idea of a nice cup of coffee and Andrés’ company, curled up next to each other on the sofa of his café didn’t seem like the worst idea anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at last, the little meet cute comes to an end! I hope it was enjoyable for everyone to read...now I'll get back to my slowburn children and finish ELT. Thanks for reading if you made it this far. I worry it wasn't my normal quality, but OH WELL.


End file.
